Masked
by jewelledhunter
Summary: Erik was always shunned by society, always behind a mask. This story chronicles his childhood and how he grew from a child, bewildered by his appearance, to a man who chose to embrace his appearance as well as love.
1. Chapter 1

AN: First, I want to say how this story came about. I was required to read _Phantom of the Opera_ over the summer, and I liked the book; it wasn't the most wonderful book, I'm not obsessed with it, but I liked it a lot. When I returned to school, our teacher asked us to create a project based on the book and this idea fell into my head. I tried to follow the hints left in the book about Erik's past, but due to length, I decided to cut out Constantinople. I see this story more as a series of oneshots about Erik's life, loosely tied together. I skip years at a time, just to highlight the key points of his life. This story is complete, and it'll be coming out as I revise some minor mistakes, but I'm not doing any major rewriting; this was a project in October and frankly, the passion I felt for the story is gone. Enjoy, please. Some references to Persian, French, and Roma (Gypsy) culture will appear as footnotes. I have not watched any adaptation of the book, so I'm going purely based on the book, although you might see a reference to the latest movie, even though I haven't seen it.

* * *

**Masked**

**Chapter 1**

_"I have seen flowers come in stony places/And kind things done by men with ugly faces..."- John Masefield  
_

When Erik was born, there were no cries of jubilation, no cooing over the new arrival.

Silence. Silence, broken only by the hiccups of the new mother.

"Is…it…" she whispered, raising her hand; the little effort made her entire body shake. Sweat trickled down her forehead. "A boy?" The midwife and father did not say a word. Finally, after a minute, the midwife picked up the child as if it was a leper and disappeared into the next room.

"Paul? Paul?" the woman sat up, wiping away the sweat from her forehead.

"Dearest, it is nothing," Paul said. "Rest now." From the other room, there was the sound of water splashing; the baby cooed.

"I want to see—"

"—the boy. It's a boy," Paul attempted to smile, but his pale face and thin lips made the smile look pathetic. "A boy, Catherine." Catherine smiled faintly, closing her eyes as she did so.

"Mme. Durand?" the midwife was back again, her thin arms cradling the baby gingerly still. "Your son," the blankets were thick, unusually thick. Catherine held out her arms. _My son…my son…_The midwife gently set the child in Catherine's arms.

She couldn't believe it.

The baby was terrifying. His skin was pale, waxy, and despite the baby fat on his cheeks, he did not look adorable; on the contrary, the baby fat made his face more monstrous. The fat was like wax. It was unevenly distributed over his face and his cheekbones jutted out of his face. Tufts of coarse black hair sprouted on his head, some of it covering his forehead. His irises were yellow, and the whites looked as if they were of a dead person; they were tinged with yellow.

"_Mon Dieu…_No, no…Take him!" Catherine felt a wild sob rising in her throat. "Midwife! Find me a wet-nurse!"

"But, Madame Durand—"

"This isn't my child! I am not going to nurse him!" Catherine screeched. She felt her head spinning. "The wet nurse! Now!" The midwife grabbed the child out of Catherine's arms and ran out of the house. Catherine took a deep, shuddering breath.

"That is not my child. It is Death's child." Paul, his face whiter now, grabbed his wife's hand.

"Catherine, he is still your son, he is God's gift to us—"

"You call that a gift? A _gift_?" said Catherine in a heated whisper. "This is a _curse_ from God, God's punishment for us, His _test_ for us, to see if we are worthy to enter His kingdom. Until then, we'll just have to endure the child."

"Endure…" Paul echoed.

"Paul, I need to sleep…perhaps forget about the child."

"Catherine," but she had already closed her eyes, breathing lightly. Paul brushed a strand of blonde hair away from Catherine`s damp forehead. The door creaked open again and Paul turned around. The midwife was back again, followed by a woman who walked far too slowly; the baby was still cradled in the midwife's arms. The woman behind the midwife shuffled through the doorway and looked up. Paul gasped.

The woman's eyes were a cloudy blue: an obvious sign of blindness. "Monsieur, I have found your wet nurse," the midwife's voice trembled. Paul walked over to the blind woman, standing a foot away from her. The woman shifted, as if feeling the air around her move. She put a hand on the door, her fingers roving over it.

"My name is Christiane Chenault," the blind woman said in a low voice. Her fingers were no longer on the door and she turned away from it, closing her eyes as if offended by something she saw. Her blonde, wispy hair fell over her face. "My child, who was three months old, has just died and my husband did not think that our child would die; he had left me and the child in France as he worked in Belgium."

"And precisely why did you find a blind woman?" asked Paul.

"Because I cannot see the boy," Christiane replied. Her head turned to the midwife; it seemed that she was trying to see the child. "I am told that his appearance is…unusual."

"Unusual does not cover it," said Paul brusquely. "The child is ugly, but a boy; he may grow up to help me in masonry if his appearance does not frighten my clients. He seems to be a strong boy."

"And his name?" Christiane asked. Paul paused, staring at the child in the midwife's arms. His eyes, those horrifying yellow eyes, were closed; he breathed in and out softly, his tufts of black hair flying up and settling back down on his forehead with each breath. His heart stirred, with the usual feelings that a parent should feel for his child, but it was curiously dampened, distant. The child was just too ugly. Despite the innocence in his sleep, the boy still looked like Death in a baby's form. When Paul and Catherine had thought of names, they had decided on Erik for a boy, Danielle for a girl. But they had been expecting a beautiful boy, with Catherine's beautiful thick brown hair and Paul's stunning blue eyes…not a monster.

"Erik," Paul said softly, he knew. Erik would never fulfill his name's prophetic meaning: he could never be accepted among men, not to mention being a ruler of men. (1)

* * *

Erik's childhood was consumed with one person: Christiane. He followed her like a little dog, a dog that had been kicked and abandoned and neglected to the point that his appearance was ruined. He was a devoted servant; whenever Christiane needed help, or there was something in her path, he would remove it, or take her hand and guide her wherever she needed to go. Despite being a wet nurse, she stayed on longer than the year that was expected…She stayed for several years. And Erik was happiest of all.

"Chrissy!" Erik burbled, crawling onto her lap one day as she was knitting. He was four, and still couldn't get his mouth around Christiane. Not that it mattered much. His voice was amazing: a soft voice that made every word that came out of his mouth irresistibly cute. Hearing him running around the house crying out for his parents (who gave him cursory affection) or Chrissy usually brought smiles to his parents' faces, until they saw his face.

"All right, Erik, what do you want?"

"Am I the only child in the world?" Erik placed the knitting needles on a table nearby and snuggled on Christiane's lap, not seeing her pinched lips. She closed her blind eyes briefly. "I've never seen another kid. There's always adults going back and forth but I don't see any children."

"No, you're not," Christiane could almost hear the cry of another child, a baby girl, a few months old, her dying gasps, her little coos. "No, you are definitely not the only child in the world, Erik. That is a foolish assumption to make."

"Then tell me about another child," Erik said, tugging on her sleeve.

"I once had my own little girl, Erik. Juliette. She died when she was a couple months old, but she was adorable, always cooing. She barely cried." Erik shifted on her lap and Christiane absent-mindedly placed her arms around the boy.

Erik wasn't sure what to think about this Juliette, who had evidently occupied Christiane's heart for a long time. He had been so sure that Christiane had only loved him, but this Juliette…she had died though.

"Where is she now?" Erik asked.

"Heaven, I am sure," replied Christiane, staring ahead. Or…she…well, she couldn't see ahead anyways. "She was a good child."

"If I die, where will I go?" Christiane started.

"Erik, why are you asking?" Christiane asked sharply. Erik shrugged.

"Maman said that I looked like death. Not to me, but she said that when I was born, she was terrified. So I can't be a gift from God."

"Your life is a gift from God, Erik," Christiane said shortly.

Somehow, Erik doubted that everyone felt the same, but _Christiane_ evidently thought he was a gift from God. That was enough for him.

* * *

Erik wanted to be a stonemason. His father was a carver, stonemasons who carved the elaborate flowers, leaves, and curling vines on the villas of the rich as well as the delicate designs required for churches. It was beautiful: it was like nature had been frozen into stone like Leto frozen out of grief for her children.

Erik wanted to know the magic, since he was four, of how to make this magic. His father had given him a small stone leaf that had been knocked off its branch and Erik placed it on his dresser. It was his most treasured possession, not only because it was from his father, but because of its beauty. He wanted to be able to astonish people with carvings he had made. And maybe they would ignore his face. Besides, his father was considering making him an apprentice. The idea of knowing how to create a world of stone made Erik tremble with longing.

But it seemed less likely, especially since he had not seen his father's workshop and he was already five years old. He was a five-year-old, who barely saw his mother and had a father who was distant. He often had meals separate of his parents…his father claimed it was because of work, his mother said it was because she had to cook for her father. But she also had to cook for Christiane and Erik. Erik had puzzled about this for a few days before giving up. He was getting used to this, his mother not liking him. He had Christiane anyways, who was infinitely kinder.

"Papa?" Erik asked one day as his father came down the stairs of their house. His father looked at his face, and then looked down. Erik felt something surge inside of him; his own _father_ couldn't look him in the eye! He put on the black and white mask that his mother had given him, sucking in a deep breath through his nostrils. He could already feel his face starting to sweat. "I'm sorry, Papa."

"Erik? What do you want?"

"Papa," he could smell mortar on Papa, the smell that he had loved from when he was two. Maman could never wash the scent out of Papa's clothing. Erik was glad: the scent was _Father_, it was beauty. "I…"

"Erik, please, I'm about to go to the workshop."

"Can…can I go with you?" Erik found it hard to breathe; Paul Durand's face was hard to interpret.

"Not today, Erik, not today." As if this was something Erik asked everyday. Couldn't Papa see that Erik had been waiting for a year? A year to summon the courage to ask his father to visit his father's workplace? Wasn't he already five years old? Surely he could handle the sight of _stone_.

"Papa—"

"Erik, not today," Papa went down the stairs and left the house; Erik stood there at the bottom of the staircase even as the door slammed behind his father.

All he wanted was a bit of beauty. Erik felt his fists clenching. Perhaps he would never get it.

* * *

**1. Erik is a Norse name meaning "Eternal ruler" or "ruler of men." **

**2. Mon Dieu- "My God" in French**

AN: Yes, Christiane, that is deliberately spelled Christiane. It isn't Christine. It'll be important at the end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Masked**

**Chapter 2**

"_I don't believe in fate or destiny. I believe in various degrees of hatred, paranoia, and __abandonment__. However much of that gets heaped upon you doesn't matter - it's only a matter of how much you can take and what it does to you."-Henry Rollins

* * *

_

He had been so sure that Christiane would always be there. But she wasn't. She left one day, left him to his parents who didn't really care for him. Her husband had returned and Erik hadn't really known hate or true sorrow until that day.

He had come in a whirlwind of fine clothing, fragrant perfumes for his dear wife, and a bear hug for Christiane. Once Paul Durand had escorted him in and Catherine Durand had pried Christiane away from Erik, Christiane, with a little guidance from Catherine, had flown into her husband's arms.

Jacques Chenault was a tall man, with black hair and brown eyes; he wasn't particularly handsome, but he had charm, even as he kissed his wife. "Seven years, Cherie (1), seven years," he murmured and his brown eyes filled with tears. Erik decided right then and there that he _hated_ when men cried. "I hope you did not suffer when I was away? You're dressed so poorly!"

"Honestly, Jacques, I think that I'm perfectly fine in these; Catherine wanted to buy some more expensive clothing, but I wouldn't let her," Christinae sighed, her head against Jacques` chest. Jacques smoothed her wispy blond hair.

"Christiane, I've made my fortune abroad…we'll be leaving for Belgium in two days. Quickly pack up your things and we can get on the road as soon as possible. Oh, it's so good to see you!"

"You're leaving?" Erik finally said. He had put on his mask immediately once he heard the knock on the door and he was glad of it. Jacques would be one of those people running the fastest away from him. Erik could feel it.

"Ah, so this is the little child, Erik!" Jacques said in a far-too jovial voice. "I've brought you a little toy, Erik," he took something out of his bag, an ornate wooden object that was almost like a thin vase. The top flared out into a small cup. Wrapped around the middle was a string and at the end of the strong was a wooden ball, made of the same wood as the vase-like object. (2) "It's a bilboquette!" Jacques said. He made a strange motion, like he was pushing something up. The ball bounced in the air. "You're supposed to get the ball into the cup."

Erik took the toy. "Thank you, Monsieur Chenault," he said blandly.

"I don't know anyone who has gotten it in the fourth try, not to mention—" Erik pushed the toy up into the air. Everyone stared at the ball. It had fallen into the cup. Erik shrugged; it hadn't been very hard. "Well, you have a little genius here! A genius, I swear!" Jacques patted Erik's head. Erik could feel his pats were ginger. Erik knew his hair was stringy and far too thick…but he had always thought his hair was less repulsive than the rest of him.

"Why, thank you, Monsieur. Say thank you to the kind gentleman."

Erik wanted to ask if he could give the toy back in exchange for Christiane for another year, but he knew that Jacques wouldn't appreciate the question. He probably wouldn't appreciate any intrusions on his precious Christiane. But Christiane was all that Erik knew.

"Thank you, Sir," Erik said softly. The wood beneath his fingers was smooth. Nice. Deceiving. This…was the consolation. As if saying, "Once Christiane is gone, this is all you will do. Play with this bilboquette over and over."

"Then, Christiane, I'm lodging in a hotel just a few blocks away—"

"Jacques. Let me stay the remainder of the days here. They have become a…sort of a family to me," Jacques' arm was still draped over Christiane's shoulder. He was quick on claiming his wife, Erik noticed. At her words, Jacques turned, both hands on her shoulders now.

"Are you sure, Christiane?" and Erik could hear every note, every accent in his voice that practically _shook_ with longing to be with Christiane. He hated it. Jacques had abandoned Christiane for seven years. Even though it was the only way Erik could have met her, Erik still found himself snidely pointing out every fault in the man.

_Desperate, foolish, wants too much out of Christiane. He abandons her and runs back a few years later, not mourning for the daughter they lost, just expecting Chrissy to love him again. _

"Just a few days. We have all the rest of our lives together, Jacques," Christiane smiled, her fingers rising to Jacques' face. His eyes closed and for a few seconds, Christiane's fingers explored her husband's face, just touching the point of his nose, his closed eyelids, the thick lashes framing his eyes, and his pale lips. Erik could see his parents looking away; perhaps they thought the scene was too private: a wife and husband reunited after so long…and this was the only way for Christiane to "see" her husband.

Erik stared. He didn't care that it was impolite; they couldn't see that he was staring anyways. It was intimate…and his parents had never been in such close contact with him. Of course, his parents shouldn't be that intimate with him…but he couldn't even remember the last time his mother or father had hugged him.

Shouldn't he expect that much from them?

With a sigh, Christiane lowered her hands. Jacques' eyes flew open and they almost devoured Christiane, as if seeing her for the first time.

"If only Juliette is still here," Jacques whispered.

_Not her again!_ And then Erik felt guilty. The girl was dead after all. He should feel nothing but sorry for her. But he couldn't, not when Christiane obsessed over the girl! Barely two months! From all he had heard of babies, they were fussy, they cried, they were annoying—what was so appealing about Juliette?

"Please, Monsieur, you must stay for dinner!" Paul Durand said. "Christiane is right; she's become our family! And Catherine is a wonderful cook." Jacques beamed at Paul.

"Of course, Jacques, we have been so rude!" Catherine cooed, running over to Jacques and wringing her hands. "A splendid feast, to celebrate the friendship between our families."

"Then I'll be back in just an hour. My coachman is still waiting for me outside!" he pecked his wife on the cheek, a smile gracing his face and bringing a bounce to his feet that was more like a lurch; he almost fell out of the doorway.

Christiane had a silly smile on her face, one that Erik had never seen; she had always been so somber, smiling tightly, but now her body…was loose and she laughed loudly, falling into Catherine's arms.

"Oh, Christiane, I'm so happy for you! All of us are happy for you!" Catherine said and Erik could feel nausea clawing at his throat. He needed to get out…he was feeling sick. Everyone was too sappy. And Christiane was _leaving_. Why did no one understand that? She was leaving! Forever! Where would she go?

"Maman?" Erik whispered, his voice quavering. Catherine Durand looked up at Erik. Erik's fingers automatically went to his face. He was wearing his black-and-white mask, thank the Lord. "I…how will I eat? I cannot eat with the mask on…"

_Why does she have to leave? Why can't she move in next to us? Christiane can teach me, she can be my mother, the mother that you aren't—_

"Oh…" Catherine frowned. "We'll just make up an excuse for you then. We'll say you feel uncomfortable, sick, perhaps. If he comes up to see you…wear your mask until he leaves." _Always pushed to the side._ "Or the attic might be good too. Yes, go to the attic, and we'll tell Jacques that you left the house. He won't have to see you, and perhaps you'll be more free to do what you want. The attic has a lot of interesting things." Maybe any other mother would have made the attic sound like a playground, but Erik could just imagine the suffocating dust and junk from decades of Durands. Boring. Possibly nightmarish.

Then again, his face was a nightmare.

* * *

The hour passed and Jacques soon entered the house again. The door behind Erik was sturdy, as if it was meant to bar him from leaving the attic. Erik took a breath and then sneezed; he took off his mask and wiped off the sweat.

There was a single round window in the curved ceiling. The sunlight was dimmed by dust on the window. Erik went to the window, wiping the dust off. He could see the attic better now; it was mostly old furniture, some books scattered about, a few toys, some random things that Erik couldn't even figure out. What were they used for anyways?

Erik stared at the dust motes dancing in the fading light. There was precious little to do here…He picked up a book, _Notre Dame de Paris _(3)_. _He had never heard of it. He opened the book; there were several words he did not recognize but the book would at least occupy several hours.

* * *

There was a knock on the trapdoor in the cellar. Erik closed the book; he had only gotten through three-quarters of it. He opened the trapdoor. His mother's face was flushed, her usually perfect hair mussed.

"Exciting dinner?" Erik asked.

"Oh, Jacques told the most amusing jokes; I'm so sorry—" his mother's words trailed off. Erik could feel his face contorting into another sneer as his mother looked at her feet. _Again, again, my mother can't look me in the face. _Erik put on his favorite mask, the black and white mask.

"Yes, mother?"

"I'm so sorry you couldn't come!" Catherine gushed. "Jacques was amazing, and the _love _between Jacques and Christiane, simply wonderful. It's amazing, several years, but they love each other so much. Jacques is waiting for you to say good-bye! How considerate is he?"

"What?"

"He said he wanted to say good-bye to you, even if it meant waiting for you for several hours. I told him that you had gone to sleep early; you're such a delicate boy, I told him. Be polite, Erik." _As if I need to be told. _Erik nodded and his mother smiled. He swore, sometimes she smiled only to mock him because _he _couldn't smile with his stupid masks. His mother climbed down the ladder and he followed her, into the small hall that served as their "entrance hall". Jacques was standing there, exuding casual charm, and all Erik wanted to do was see him stumble, fall flat on his face. Christiane would be able to see that as well. Well…not see, but at least feel the ground shake as her _beloved _husband toppled to the ground like a large, obnoxious, old oak tree.

"Erik!" Jacques smiled, infuriatingly. Idiot. "You are very intelligent, boy."

_Boy. Well, that's a new nickname. _"Thank you, sir."

"And my lovely Christiane has been telling about how you've always been so intelligent; you'll simply thrive in school. Well, then," he took out a pocket-watch, peering at the hands. "Not much time left in the day. It's been delightful meeting all of you. Au revoir, cherie," he kissed Christiane on the cheek and then left; there was a carriage waiting for him outside.

Christiane's eyes _shone_; Erik had never seen them like that. "Oh, it's so good to be near him again!" she whispered.

Erik could think of many insults that a six-year-old shouldn't have been capable of, but he decided not to say any of them; Christiane was certainly not deaf.

* * *

"Chrissy, couldn't Monsieur Chenault stay here and do business? Where are you even going?" Erik couldn't help but feel even more like a little dog. Christiane drifted around her room, cleaning up the small things that she had left over the years and packing them in the vast trunk that she had brought when Erik was born.

"Oh, but the business he's working for is very important," Christiane had never beamed before, and Erik could have sworn right there and then to never have such a stupid expression on his face. "Paris will be amazing and then we'll settle in a beautiful hamlet and have another child—and it'll be a boy and we'll call him Erik!" Erik stared at Christiane.

"Erik?" asked Erik faintly. "You're going to name your child Erik?" Christiane paused, her hands wrapped in a simple cotton blue dress.

"Well, a girl will have to be Erika. Yes, Erika." Christiane's lips curled into a smile, a smile that was far too wide.

Erik could have died of hate for _happiness_. Her expression was repulsive; he never thought ugliness could grace Christiane's face, but it did. "Why?" he asked coldly.

"It's been a joy living here, Erik," Christiane said. "You made it possible, Erik, for me to be part of your family for a while. And I'm so glad of it. Now that I get to be with my true family, I'll never forget the Durands."

_Mon Dieu, just stay here and you'll have both of your families…

* * *

_The fatal day came. She left.

There was no weeping or anything. Jacques' footmen grabbed the trunk and silently left. After a quick _bise_ (5) for both Monsieur and Madame Durand, Christiane gave Erik a hug. Erik grabbed her arm as she turned towards her husband.

"Oh, Erik," she sighed and turned around again. "We'll see each other again." Erik somehow couldn't believe it. "Be good, Erik. Trust in God. We will meet again." And then, just like that, as if she wasn't blind, she gently pried Erik's hands off of her arm and left, in that fancy carriage with her husband, and Erik grabbed the doorknob even as his father shut the door. He just couldn't believe she was gone…

* * *

**1. Cherie- Dear in French**

**2. A popular toy during the time POTO was set; ****http:/ h ist. c o m /props/in c/images/cf_bilbo-catcher_ l.j p g**** (remove the spaces to access the image)**

**3. **_**Notre Dame de Paris**_** is the original title of **_**The Hunchback of Notre Dame **_**by Victor Hugo. The French title reflects the fact that Hugo wrote the novel as a way to bring attention to the declining cathedral; hence, many people believe that the true main character of the novel is the cathedral, which underwent a massive restoration after Hugo's novel became a bestseller. **

**4. La bise: A traditional French greeting with family and close friends; an exchange of kisses on the cheeks. **

AN: I did a lot more history research than I anticipated; this is just the beginning of the chapters where I actually had to research and not just draw on my previous knowledge of France during the time. Luckily, I did a project on Notre Dame de Paris for my French class earlier, which helped me a bit. Haha. Anyways, I realized quite early on while writing this that Erik doesn't sound like a six-year-old. I like to imagine he's just a lot more mature than he should be, but this is perhaps inexusable. Oh well. I hoped you enjoyed this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Masked**

**Chapter 3**

**"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."-Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

  
**

It only took a year after Christiane left before Erik left.

The year passed in a blur; there was no school for Erik since people would be terrified of his appearance and of course, if he wore a mask, some stupid child would take it off sooner or later. His parents didn't want to think of what would happen to him if his mask was taken off. Instead, he received no education from his parents.

He could only retreat to the attic and dig among the musty old books, using an old dictionary for the harder words. There was nothing better for him to do. It had been two years since he had asked his father to go into his workshop. Erik still wanted to enter that shrine to beauty…but it seemed an impossible dream.

"Erik!" his mother shrieked. The trapdoor flapped open and Erik almost fell out of the attic. He knew it was no use to hurry; his mother wouldn't be pleased anyways, judging from her voice, but it was always nice to try. "Your grandparents are coming for the first time in several years; they've been living in Paris!" Catherine was wringing her hands; her brown hair fell out of its usually perfect bun. "Argh! Mon Dieu! They are coming in a day! Everything has to be perfect! You will have to stay in the attic, for the entire day, without ever coming out." Erik stared at his mother; judging from her reaction, it was her in-laws. "Where is your mask?" she shrieked again. Erik rolled his eyes; he put the mask on.

"Why for the entire day?"

"Your grandparents don't know that you exist! I told them that I had a miscarriage; the last time they saw me, I was two months along—"

"My grandparents don't know I exist? What about your parents?"

"They died before I had you," something passed over Catherine's face, but it was gone almost instantly. "How are we going to smuggle food into the attic?"

_I don't need food. You told my parents…that I don't exist. That I'm some mutilated corpse under the earth, a forgotten child, no better than Juliette. _

Erik found himself crawling back up the ladder, into the attic. "Erik? Erik? We haven't even arranged anything!" his mother called.

"I don't care," Erik muttered and he pushed open the trapdoor, letting it fall behind him. _If only there was a bell for me to ring here, _he mused, _I would be a perfect Quasimodo. Notre Dame de Paris…_Somehow, the only image of _Notre Dame _(1) he could come up was Christiane.

* * *

He could hear for the entire day the idle talk below and each word was like a stab. _Maintaining an illusion that I don't exist?_

"So, Catherine," the deep, gravelly voice of Adrien Durand was already an annoyance to poor Erik. "Where is the grandchild we've been expecting?" Erik could imagine the perfect terrified expression on his mother's face, followed by her careful cover-up.

"The miscarriage took quite a bit from my health. Dear Paul perfectly understands," now Erik could imagine the weak smile on his father's face.

"Of course, of course," the high, nasal voice of Renee Durand was almost as annoying as that of her husband's. Erik had heard that the English complained of French being such a nasal language, but he doubted that they had ever heard Renee Durand's voice. Perhaps she was a perfectly charming person face-to-face; perhaps both of them were. But their _voices…_

And they spoke about their grandchild as if he was nonexistent, as if he was still some airy idea. Erik longed to faint in some way that wouldn't be too painful. At least they would be able to hear him hit the ground.

Erik sighed, rearranging himself on the floor and pressing his ear slightly closer to the patch of floor that he had made sure to polish. If he was going to eavesdrop, he wasn't going to have centuries of dust lingering…well, in his ears. There was the subtle clink of glasses. Evidently, Paul was taking out his old wine.

"You seem in the prime of your health, my dear," Adrien said. "Sorry if I may say so." Erik swore he could hear Catherine breathe an exasperated sigh, but that might have been his imagination.

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to decide when to have a child. Right now, I'm far too delicate."

"Hmm, you should have the child as soon as possible though. The Durands need an heir, and Paul cannot keep up the masonry forever. He is, after all, the driving force behind the masonry, and we have been running that masonry for centuries. Even a girl would be nice; always adds a feminine touch to the carvings that people enjoy."

_Juliette. Everyone wants a daughter, Juliette, now this daughter…nobody wants _me_…not some nightmare from the depths of hell. _

He had to find Christiane. He had to find Christiane…he had to…

* * *

The next morning, as his grandparents and parents slept, he slipped out of the house, several masks and some food in a backpack. It was simple, ridiculously simple; he just left the house that he had never left before and strode away.

He passed the workshop he had never been allowed to see.

Passed the bakery where most of his food came from.

Passed the person who sold the masks that he now carried.

Passed the people who never knew that the famed Paul Durand had a son, a son sent by God to test his parents. Was that what he was for? A test…so that his parents would be martyrs? Was he just the sacrificial lamb, the Issac for his parents who would be forgiven by God just like Abraham had been…where was the ram sent down by God? Or was God just going to let him die?

Where was Christiane?

At the thought, he pushed the mask on his face closer; sweat began to bead on his face. Stupid, stupid, stupid masks.

_Trust in God, Erik. _Trust in God…perhaps…perhaps the way to find her was to look her up in churches. Yes, she was deeply devout, and no doubt Erik would find her name somewhere, in those huge log-books that supposedly stood near the entrance of every door. She would have probably left Paris by now…there were only the countless of hamlets around the city that could lodge a relatively prosperous business and his wife.

Erik sighed. A daring, stupid idea. But it would have to do.

* * *

He had begged for money, he had stolen things, he had done things that he thought unspeakable, just to survive. He had been too idealistic and soon, each day was a fight for survival, to survive until the next hamlet. He was too proud to return to his parents, but sometimes, his pride would die and he would suppress tears at the thought of a warm home and parents who, while not being affectionate, would at least provide for him.

His clothing, despite his best efforts to keep them clean and nice, already sported several holes. He picked at one of them as he stumbled into another town; he entered with the careless abandon of a child who had been on the road for far too long.

He didn't even notice the lurid tents of the Roma people. But he did notice the little boy who ran up to him. The boy was handsome, perhaps: six years old and with an impish smile. Several motherly-looking women were already casting adoring glances at him. His black curls bounced as he ran up to Erik. Erik, barely eight, stared at him curiously.

"Why are you wearing a mask?" the boy asked, his French curiously accented. "Isn't it hot?" He planted himself in front of Erik, tilting his head to the side.

"I—"

But the boy, the boy had _jumped_ and with a swift motion, had pulled off Erik's mask, his dark blue mask, and the boy's eyes widened. His mouth fell open and the mask fell to the ground. Erik snatched the mask, one hand instinctively covering his face.

"But…you're…"

"Ugly?" Erik whispered, covering his face again with the mask. "Yes, I know. Leave me alone," he tramped past the boy, fingering the hole in his sleeve. He _hated _children, Erik decided. Hated all of them.

"Monsieur!" Well, this was new. He had never been called Monsieur. He turned around. The boy didn't seemed too frightened…Curious. "You need help, don't you?" Erik stared at the boy, and then at the holes in his sleeves. The boy's eyes landed on the holes and he nodded. "Yes, you do. What's your name?"

"I'm Erik."

"Andrzej," the boy said, smiling brilliantly; Erik noted that if he could smile like that, his mother would _adore _him. "Our leader can help you." And then, Andrzej put his hand into Erik's hand and started to pull him forward. Erik couldn't think.

Someone had taken his hand. Taken his hand. The child pulled him forward, with purpose, with direction, ignoring the yellow skin on Erik's hand, the awful, awkward bones jutting through his skin. He had never approached the Gypsies before and their exotic clothing, their colorful tents, the smells assaulted his senses. There were curious stares, but none of the hostility that he had encountered before; even when he had worn his mask before, people had stared at him accusingly.

There was none of that now.

Andrzej pulled aside a heavy curtain of a large, blue tent and entered. He let go of Erik's hand; Erik took a deep breath and put on his mask, and then entered after Andrzej. "Sir," Andrzej said and then it was all rapid Romani, to a tall man sitting in the middle of the room, whose eyes flitted between Andrzej and Erik. Erik looked everywhere around him except for at the man…if they had eye contact, the man would see his eyes.

It was plain though. Just the blue fabric, a few rugs on the floor woven of a rich material, and some papers piled up in a corner. The Gypsies never seemed so fond of literature though—

"Take off your mask," the man said, rising to his feet. He ran a hand through his hair, longer than most of the Gypsy men's hair, and pursed his lips. "Take it off."

"Erik, go on," Andrzej said. "It's the only way."

Erik closed his eyes and raised his hand; the mask slipped off in his fingers. He heard the man gasp. Then, silence. He opened his eyes. The man had averted his eyes away from Erik's face.

"You are what we need, yes," the man said, his voice intense, but the effect was lessened by the fact that he wasn't looking into Erik's face. "_Le mort vivant, _the Living Dead…yes. Your name is Erik, correct?" Without waiting for Erik to reply, the man continued, now pacing, "We run…a show. One of the greatest traveling shows in this part of France. If you wish to stay among us, where you will be accepted, you must become part of a show…a show devoted to _you._"

Erik put on his mask again; the man turned, his eyes widening. "No! When you walk among us, your mask must be _off_. Your appearance is what will draw audiences from hundreds of miles away."

"I'm not something to be shown off," Erik could hear every part of his eight-year-old self in that stupid comment.

"But you must understand. You have been shunned all your life, but now, what made you shunned will become your greatest point, the reason why people talk about you, with awe, with terror. It is best to have any reputation, whether good or bad, than to have no reputation at all."

Erik was only eight years old. He couldn't understand this.

"I don't want to be involved in the show," he said peevishly. The man's eyes flashed; they looked absurd, simply because they were so small.

"Then you have no reason to be among us," he said. "The Roma accept outsiders warily, and you must do what you can if you want to even hope to remain among us. With us, you're guaranteed that we will not hate you for your appearance."

_We will not hate you for your appearance…_ "I will do it," Erik said.

* * *

He was to stay with a widower; for a widower, Erik thought, the man didn't seem too unhappy. Shandor lived in a red tent that actually had a small, foldable desk, some blankets, and some pots and pans piled in a corner.

Shandor himself was short; the leader towered over him easily and Erik felt rather tall next to Shandor. But he didn't seem uneasy at all, being almost dwarfed by an eight-year-old child. He tilted his head to the sides the three of them entered.

"And this is—"

"Le mort vivant," the leader said. "Andrzej found him; he will be part of the show starting next month. Teach him some things. Call him Vivant, so we all know what he does."

"Your true name?" Shandor asked, his voice soft compared to the bite of the leader's voice.

"His name is Erik!" Andrzej said.

"Erik," Shandor repeated. The leader pursed his lips.

"All right, if you insist on calling him by his name, everyone else is to call him Vivant. We need to make it clear what he's here for. If you will excuse me, I need to leave now; we are leaving tomorrow morning, after all." The leader left, and Andrzej trotted after him, flashing a smile over his shoulder. Shandor sat down, motioning to Erik to sit down as well.

"You're a lonely person," Shandor said. "You're too young to be so lonely." Erik bristled.

"I've been wandering on my own for a year," Erik said. "My parents abandoned me."

"Because—"

"I'm too ugly," Shandor stared at Erik, but it wasn't an intent glare, just a stare that was disconcerting. "Do you want to see?" Erik challenged. Shandor smiled gently, amused. Erik felt something course through his veins, something like anger; he ripped off the mask. Shandor's eyes shifted, but other than that, he didn't react. "Aren't you supposed to be scared?" said Erik, a challenge in his voice.

"It does not say anything about your soul," said Shandor, "plenty of people far better-looking than you have pursued the Roma, accusing them of unspeakable crimes. Sometimes, we forget that appearance doesn't reflect personality." Shandor was silent for a few minutes. "The Roma constantly move. You must be prepared to move on a monthly basis; you just happened to come on the eve of our departure. We have shows, and then we move on. You'll need to get used to that. Additionally, your show…your show…it cannot consist only of people gawking at your looks. What talents do you have?"

"Talent?"

"Evidently a new word for you. Then you can be taught to use what you already have," Shandor shifted slightly. "Do you want something to drink?" Erik shook his head. "You will stay in my tent…I will serve as your father."

"What will you teach me?" Erik asked. Shandor raised an eyebrow.

"Do you want to know so badly?" Shandor asked. Erik shrugged.

"Tomorrow, Erik."

* * *

"Vivant!" Andrzej yelled; Erik turned around, to see that the boy was referring to him. He must have seen the confused look on Erik's face. "Everyone wants to call you Vivant. Easier to remember than Erik, since it's your show. Can you help me?"

The morning was foggy and Erik felt as if he was wading through the fog. It was barely five in the morning, as far as Erik could tell; Shandor had already called him up and told him to pack his own meager possessions up as well as help with Shandor's test. Erik pushed a mask against his face.

Andrzej's parents moved about their tent, their dark skin emerging out of the soupy gloom like no one else's. They looked up, smiling to see their son, who now seemed pale compared to his parents. "Vivant is going to help us!" Andrzej said cheerfully.

"Merci," Andrzej's father said, "I need both of you boys to go into the tent and gather any small items you see. I've already cleared out the larger ones." Nobody seemed to question his mask.

The job was quick and easy, and Erik felt his face flush as he slowly figured out what Andrzej was doing. Andrzej felt _pity_ for him. He had no companion, so Andrzej had just invited him to do mindless chores. His pride flared, but he bit his lip and continued to hand things to Andrzej's kind mother until out of the murk, Shandor emerged.

"Erik, come with me now," Erik nodded and left; there was no need to say bye to Andrzej. At least, he thought there wasn't any.

"You should at least thank the boy," Shandor said softly.

"He only pitied me."

Shandor shrugged. "It is a small gesture."

* * *

A week later, after they had really settled in Leaz, Shandor woke Erik up with something new. "We're going to see what you can do. Let us have breakfast first."

Breakfast was a hurried affair, and then once the dishes were filed away, Shandor sat back against the only piece of furniture in the room, the desk. "Can you sing? Dance? Are you a ventriloquist? Improvise poems?"

"I—I don't know."

"Sing. Anything."

"I…I don't know any songs. At least, I don't know any lyrics." Shandor sighed, looking up at the ceiling of the tent.

"Frere Jacques (2). Surely you know that."

It was painful, utterly painful, even though Shandor never uttered a word; he simply watched as Erik searched his memories for anything that qualified as a talent.

At the end, Erik trailed off. "Sir?" he asked, timidly.

"You can sing. We can cultivate other talents. Illusion for example. Your ugliness, I'm sorry, can be camouflaged, and the audience will be delighted to see your intelligence. Throw your voice around the audience, make them believe that you are beside them, and meanwhile, change your face, using masks," Shandor sighed, rising to his feet. "You have a great deal to learn. I can teach you all of this if you are willing to learn. Tell me, Erik, do you have anything that you desire?"

Erik started; he lifted his fingers to his face in an unconscious movement. His mask wasn't on, but Shandor stared into his eyes directly. He lowered his fingers. "I just want to find Christiane." Shandor's eyebrows furrowed.

"Christiane?"

"She was my nanny."

"And what do you need with her?"

"She…" Erik could find no answer. He stared at the carpet and started picking out some of the purple threads.

"Your wish is unreasonable, but—"

"All I need to do is look at the log book for every church we pass by," Erik could hear his voice, pleading and desperate. "That's all. I won't spend any extra time. We would have to pass by churches anyways." Suddenly, his fingers were being squeezed, as if a brick had fallen on top of them, and he yanked them out of Shandor's fingers.

"Those carpets take a while to weave," said Shandor mildly.

"Sorry," Erik muttered.

"It will be no problem, Erik. Look at the churches, if you wish, to find your Christiane. Until then, you train with me. We will ask for two months instead of a month for preparation for your first act."

* * *

**1. Notre Dame literally means "Our Lady", the Virgin Mary; I meant to say that Erik could only think of Christiane when picturing the Virgin Mary. **

**2. Frere Jacques literally means "Brother Jacques"; it's a nursery rhyme that's almost the same (lyrics and tune) with the nursery rhyme "Brother John". **

AN: Well, I had to dig up some information on Roma culture. I chose to not make the Gypsies abusive, a rather strange trend that I've seen a couple of fanfictions and Kay's Phantom (I've only discovered the book and found some parts disturbingly similar to my own fanfiction, even though I haven't heard of it until a week ago and I wrote this fic in October. Rather strange, but anyways...) In retrospect, I made quite a lot of the characters in Erik's life kind, but trust me, there _will _be manipulators. The only truly neglectful people in this story are his parents, but there's a character who will be responsible for most of his moral disintergration.


	4. Chapter 4

**Masked**

**Chapter 4  
**

**"Where misunderstanding serves others as an advantage, one is helpless to make oneself understood."- Lionel Trilling**

* * *

The first performance was frightening, insane. There was just a large tent, some wooden benches, a ring drawn in the dirt…and it just started. Just like that.

There were the dances, then the quick acrobatics…and then it was his turn. He had rejected the stupid puppet that some people were required to carry, but as he stepped on the stage, he almost wished that he were talented at making puppets "speak". Going on by himself…

As he went to the center of the stage, he could feel hundreds of eyes on him; someone clapped loudly, obnoxiously. He took a deep shuddering breath and lifted the mask off his face. The white mask was a subdued, grey-white color, plaster flaking off on his fingers.

Gasps.

"Behold, Le Mort Vivant!" the leader (Erik still did not know his name) cried, his voice booming over the shocked cries.

"The devil!" someone screamed.

"I am _not_ the devil," but Erik threw his voice, threw it to the ceiling, where it lingered, and everyone stared at the ceiling. "I'm just a boy."

That was precisely the wrong thing to say, but he had to amuse the crowd somehow, and his skills at ventriloquism weren't really great. He could throw his voice every time now, but where it ended up…he didn't have a lot of control over that. "I—"

"If it isn't the devil, then how do you do that?" someone else asked, but the voice was curious. Erik found the man who was speaking. He had closed his eyes, apparently too scared to look at Erik directly. Erik smiled and he could see several people shudder. _Let them be scared_, he thought.

"Most of you have gone to school; I learned with a teacher as well," his voice drifted to somewhere over the left-hand side of the audience. Some people turned around, their eyes wide, to stare at the billowing sides of the red tent. "May I tell you a story?"

The crowd muttered; a child sobbed and Erik felt his heart seize with something…something…(1) "Long ago," he began, "there was a queen, who was dying on her deathbed, and her husband was already grieving…'Do not grieve for me too long,'" and his voice, almost perfectly like a woman's, drifted to the side; people were turning their heads again. He smiled, despite himself, and continued, "'If you choose to remarry, you must marry a woman whose beauty and wit matches mine's…" (2)

* * *

Erik stumbled out of the arena, his throat burning. At least no one had thrown anything at him. "Excellent, Vivant, excellent," the leader said. "You'll be putting on a performance every other night. Can you tell jokes?"

"I do not know any," Erik said stiffly, shoving his mask back onto his face.

"You can be taught. Vary your routine; Shandor should help you rearrange programs."

* * *

It all passed in a blur: learning his routine and sneaking out, directly after dinner, to find any churches. He thought he might have seen every church in all the cities that the band of Gypsies had traveled to. He had only seen one Chenault, and it was not Jacques or Christiane Chenault. Nor did Erik see Christiane's maiden name, Rowena, except behind some ridiculous name like Arbor, which was definitely not Christiane.

Erik had only missed one church in the little town of Hyere and today, Shandor had just released him from practice. The sun was starting to set; the church, normally a pasty yellow color, glowed white, silhouetted by gold. Somebody bumped against him and murmured sorry. Erik pushed his mask against his face.

He pushed against the heavy wooden door and stepped in, feeling the awe come over him again, as he did whenever he entered any church. The high, arching ceiling was filled with a beautiful light; the fading light poured in from the stained glass windows. Right next to him was a beautiful fountain of holy water, an angel holding the bowl in its hand, and Erik couldn't help but feel jealous of a stone carving…He could never be loved like that. He wasn't sure if he had ever felt the touch of holy water. After all, no one had known he had existed, so surely he had never been baptized.

The book was on a little podium; Erik flipped it open. They all smelled the same, of ink, the scented candles, the old paper used. _Chenault…Rowena….Chenault…Rowena…_For thirty minutes, Erik pored over the book, even as people walked past him, even as a service started.

Nothing. Two years, and only one Chenault appeared: Sophia Chenault. And that was exactly two years ago. Erik shut the book with a little bang. Nobody heard it. They were still singing, singing their hymns that Erik could not understand, even though they were all in French. Erik watched them in mild fascination.

He must have stayed longer than he thought, because soon, the members rose from the wooden benches and filed out the door. The priest walked over to Erik, his face contorted in some semblance of a smile.

"You've lingered here for a while," his voice was calm, soothing; he was no hellfire preacher. He looked benevolent as well: dark brown hair, brown eyes, wrinkles on his forehead that seemed out of place with his youthful countenance. "Why are you wearing a mask?"

Surely the man knew! There was only one person going out with a mask around the town now probably. "I…nobody can see my face," Erik muttered. The priest's forehead was covered in a new mass of wrinkles; Erik realized, without much surprise, that he was confused.

"You, like everyone, are a gift from the Lord. There is nothing that should make you wear a mask when you move amongst people. Smallpox, perhaps?"

"No."

"Then…" the priest trailed off. Erik pressed the mask harder against his face. "What is it that afflicts you?"

"I…" Tongue-tied. He was _tongue-tied_. "I am not a gift from the Lord, Father. I died before I was born."

"Surely it cannot be that terrible." Naïve! Annoying! Did he want to see?

"It is, Father," Erik said flatly. "And there is no need for you to understand. I must leave now; I will be leaving this town tomorrow."

"If you did not come here to worship, what were you here for?" the priest asked hurriedly, as Erik reached the door. Erik stopped.

"I…was looking for Christiane and Jacques Chenault." He pushed the door open and left, before the priest could question him more. The sun had set totally and stars twinkled in the pure sky over Hyere. Erik took a deep breath and smelled…plaster.

His stupid mask.

* * *

"Presenting Le Mort Vivant!" Erik strode confidently onto the stage to a smattering of applause. His mask…it was a fantastic work of art, a spinoff of the first mask his mother had given which, after four years predictably, had not survived…Black and white, split down the middle, contrast.

He stood there for a few seconds, until he saw the audience start to shift uncomfortably, and then he ripped off his mask, throwing it to the ground. It rolled in a little cloud of dust. The crowd shrieked. He smiled, shaking out his stringy black hair.

"Vivant, ladies and gentlemen, Vivant," he said casually; a lady in the audience shrieked. "I'm sorry, dear, was that too close to your ear? My voice does like to wander, like a little boy. Oh, but I forgot. I am a little boy. I'm twelve."

"The devil!"

Erik rolled his eyes. "You could come up with a more creative insult," Erik said. "Every town I've been to has been the same. 'The devil!' The devil does not move as quickly as the Gypsies do, I'm sorry to say."

"Then are you human?" a man shouted. Erik smiled again. Just a subtle adjustment.

"Yes, I am," he whispered, but the man screamed, falling off his chair. It was _so _easy, just throwing his voice right next to the man…only that man would hear it. "I'm sorry, sir, are you all right?" Erik called out, with his normal voice. The man staggered off the benches, clutching his ears. "Well, apparently, he's escaped from the madhouse," Erik said, shrugging. "A story?" Without waiting for any cue from the audience, Erik threw his voice to the top of the tent.

"Many years ago, there was a prince. He was the most handsome man in the kingdom, because in the stories, he has to be," Erik grinned, "With a snap of his fingers, he had whatever he wanted. But he trusted no one, didn't trust his parents, didn't trust his servants, didn't trust anyone. One day, he was told of a disease spreading throughout the kingdom, called the Red Death, and the prince, called Prospero, ignored the reports. He had decided to hold a masquerade that day," Erik allowed his voice to drift down, right next to one of the more vulnerable-looking women, who shivered, raising her head to meet Erik's eyes. (3)

"Nothing was going to stop him. So all the nobles, despite their fears of the Red Death, went to the masquerade, and all was glitter and beauty, and Prince Prospero wandered about the castle, greeting fellow nobles and everything the nobility does, when he saw a person slipping into one of the more-ominous rooms of the castle. The room faced north, never receiving sunlight, and the stained-glass was of roses, so that the little light that did filter in was red, red on black. The prince haughtily demanded the person to turn around and the person did: he wore a red robe and his face was that of a skull. And the prince demanded him to speak, calling him a betrayer of humanity, to be wandering about in such a monstrous costume."

"And the person did speak, and it said, 'Do not disturb the Red Death," and the prince fell dead, right there and then. And when the guests tried to search for him, they found the Red Death standing vigil beside the prince, and each pleaded, or threatened, or tried to persuade the Red Death to let go of the body…but whenever they approached the prince, still perfect in death despite the Red Death's terrible effects ordinarily, they would fall dead as well, and the bodies disappeared one by one."

Silence. Then applause, loud applause. He would never be called for an encore, but he got applause. He had done a reasonably good job of scaring them all. Hopefully they would all have nightmares. Erik smiled, bowing, and then picked up his mask, leaving the stage.

Shandor was there, lurking in the tents behind the main tent. As some girls chattered excitedly, their bangles clanking like coins in a beggar's metal can, Shandor clasped Erik by the shoulder and smiled. "Good job, Erik, good job. You just take a little bit too much pleasure from their unhappiness."

"Their faces were funny!" Erik protested, shaking dust off the mask. Shandor shrugged.

"You shouldn't be that excited, Erik."

"Excuse me, sirs," a man came up to them. "I am Alan Cheval, and I was wondering, where do you get your _extraordinary _talent? I'm well-traveled, as a fur trader, and I've never seen anyone as talented as you," he seemed perfectly fine, except he couldn't look at Erik's face. Then again, no one could, and Erik had to stare at the man's black hair.

"My teacher," Erik said, "Shandor."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Shandor," Alan said, bobbing his head. "However, Vivant, I just want to tell you that you obviously have a very fine career ahead of you; you can become famous throughout the world—"

"I don't want to be famous," Erik blurted out.

"Hush, Erik," Shandor said. "Thank you for your flattery, sir."

* * *

It was a year later when Alan returned to haunt them. Erik stumbled out of another church; he had been examining the book for two hours, when Andrezj, now ten years old, leapt out of nowhere. "There you are! Vivant! This is important!"

"What?" Erik said blankly.

"The Shah of Persia is asking for you!"

"What?" Erik had barely even heard of Persia, not to mention the Shah.

"Come on!" and then Andrezj dove into the crowd, weaving through them, and Erik just managed to keep up with the boy, dodging the street scenes of rural France: a wagon filled with fresh vegetables, chickens clucking frantically and pecking at the ground, a mother trying to comfort her crying child. Then, it was the Gypsy camp, with the familiar smell of strange spices, but the entire place was in an uproar; horses were stabled next to tents. Men in strange, billowing clothing, hats or turbans on their head, were milling about, alternating between French and Persian. In the middle of the crowd was Shandor, looking stressed.

"Erik!" Shandor said, looking relieved as the two boys ran up to him. Murmurs rose in the crowd of Persians.

"This is the boy then!" a Persian said, his French heavily accented. "The boy that the trader spoke of!"

"Shandor—"

"It seems that Alan has spoken of you to the Shah in Persia," Shandor said, his forehead wrinkling. "And the Shah wants you to serve in his court."

"Then we are all going to Persia?" Erik blurted. There was silence among all of them.

"No, Erik," another Persian said, "you are leaving the camp."

"But, but…I can't…"

"Four years, Erik. I've taught you everything; you just have to cultivate your talent by yourself. You're smart. You're powerful. You can do many good things, Erik, you have to," Shandor spoke rapidly, even as the Persians spoke amongst themselves.

"The Shah demands that Erik be escorted as soon as possible to his court," the first Persian said, gesturing to the horses.

"But—"

"There isn't any time; Erik, grab your things, pack them up; you're leaving today," Shandor pushed Erik gently towards the tent.

"But—"

"You're amazing, Erik!" Andrezj piped up, pulling Erik suddenly by his hand. "The Shah! The ruler of Persia!" Erik shook his head.

"But, I'm going to be alone, and—"

"You were alone before! And besides, they've all supposedly mastered French, all of them; you'll be fine." They entered the red tent that Erik had lived in for almost four years and Erik mechanically grabbed the bag that he had used every time they had moved to a new town and started shoving things in. Mostly masks. It was still mostly masks…at least he had more clothing, although they were of the flowing Gypsy style. The flap opened and a Persian looked in.

"Do not pack everything. The Shah has already prepared your clothing."

"Already?" Erik whispered. The Persian nodded and then the flap closed behind him. Andrezj turned, looking awed.

"Wow!"

* * *

**1. One of the Grimm's Fairy Tales; I can't exactly remember which one it is and I'm really not inclined to search through all of them. If someone can tell me what's the title, that'll be helpful (I really wish I had my copy, but I can only look it up online now.)**

**2. The closest thing I can find to what Erik does in POTO (creating illusions with his voice) is ventriloquism, even though it's usually used with a prop. I've called it that in this fanfic as a matter of convenience.**

**3. The Masque of the Red Death was written by Edgar Allen Poe; Erik dressed up as the Red Death during the masquerade. This is a summary.**

AN: Well, the scene with the priest was supposed to serve a greater purpose, but in the end, it didn't, but I really liked the scene, so I kept it in.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Masked**

**"The jealous are troublesome to others, but a torment to themselves."- William Penn**

* * *

The Persians were silent, boring company. Despite riding a horse for the first time, the tedium soon became terrible and Erik wished desperately that he was still with the Gypsies; he hadn't even got to say bye to Shandor and all the other people, and how was he supposed to look for Christiane if he was in Persia?

Plus, the food was strange. The Gypsies had mostly cooked French food with some vestiges of their original cuisine (a vegetable stew, and various dishes with _lots_ of garlic) but the Persians insisted on eating rice and bread that was completely flat, doogh, some strange yogurt, and countless of other strange things. Whenever they stopped by a city, it was inevitably rice, rice with no sugar, and if they were anywhere else, it was flat bread, and they always drank tea, without putting the sugar into the tea, but putting it into their mouth and then drinking the tea around the cube and letting it dissolve. **(1)**

Erik began to long for milk, or even stupid British tea. Normal bread. A quiche, even. _Seafood_. Croissants.

None of that, of course.

Traveling was tiring as well; nobody really spoke to him, even though Erik wore masks constantly and it was with relief that Erik realized that they had finally arrived at the palace. He was so tired that he wasn't even impressed by the Persian palace, a huge set of buildings covered in elaborate carvings and in the front, a large, mirror-like pool of water. **(2)**

"The Shah will see you in a week," one of the Persians said as they dismounted, allowing their horses to be led away. "I will take you to your room, and a servant will be there. He will serve you during your stay here."

"I…I'll have a servant?" Erik sputtered. The Persian raised an eyebrow and then laughed softly.

"Of course, sir, you will have servants. You will be staying here for quite a long time." He gestured ahead. "Follow me." He walked through an open hallway; Erik had to run to keep up with him, his bag bouncing on his back. He walked past several beautiful gardens, filled with flowers and pools of water and Erik had no time to stare.

But finally, he turned right, towards a courtyard encircled by four two-story buildings. "Your apartments are here," the man casually waved his hand towards a two-story building.

"What?"

"Your apartments," the man repeated. "You'll be living in that apartment."

"Why would I ever need so many rooms?"

"Guests. You are an entertainer; surely you will have guests." Didn't he understand? Who would want to live in the same building as Erik did? Shandor had been an exception, the only person who could look him straight in the eye and not flinch.

"I—"

"Take it as a gift from the Shah-in-Shah, his gift for your talent."

* * *

The bed was huger than any bed Erik had ever seen, with the most luxurious blankets he had ever seen. The bedroom itself was as large as the tent that he had left and the bath was more like a swimming pool than any bath he had ever seen. Plus, there were four bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a dining room, a study, and five servants, three employed just to clean up after his messes.

Not that Erik made much of a mess. He mostly stayed in one of the bedrooms and baths, eating meals in his bedroom. The house was too big. If it could be called a house, that is. It was awful.

Then, one of his servants (they never told him their names, despite Erik asking) said one day when he woke up, "The Shah-in-Shah wishes to see you, sir."

Erik felt curiously calm. Maybe it was because he was starting to understand everyone's curiously-accented French. He put on some clothing and followed the servant through endlessly winding corridors; he was sure that he would always get lost in this palace.

The throne room was all gold carvings, as intricate as the carvings inside, and it was blinding; the sun seemed to have risen in the room. In the middle of all the splendor was the Shah-in-Shah, surrounded by guards, courtiers, and servants. Erik suddenly felt all the jitters he had felt months ago return in a flood.

"Kneel before the Shah," the servant whispered as they entered the room. "Keep your head down. Do not speak until he speaks to you, and wait until he tells you to rise, to rise. Even if he speaks to you." Erik nodded numbly; the rug was gold and brown. Erik pressed his mask harder against his face as he went to his knees.

"Why does the boy wear a mask?" the Shah said sharply, in French, as if being courteous to Erik.

"I have told you, Shahanshah," with a jolt, Erik recognized the voice of Alan, the fur trader, "it is Erik's personal choice—" **(3)**

"Why do you wear a mask, boy," the Shah asked.

"I'm…I'm sorry, most people cannot be allowed to see my face—" Erik muttered. There was somebody rapidly speaking in Persian, and then, with shock, Erik heard the servant kneeling next to him translating.

"They are wondering why you said that. They've mentioned smallpox. Alan is trying to explain your role as Le Mort Vivant but they don't seem to understand—"

"Take off your mask, Erik," the Shah said. _Why_ was he always required to do this? Erik ripped off the mask, keeping his head lowered. "Rise then," the Shah sounded irritable. Erik rose to his feet, staring at the Shah. A gasp resounded through the hall. The Shah's eyes widened, and then narrowed.

"I trust your talents are extensive though?"

"Good enough," but Erik made his voice seem to come from behind the Shah; the man turned around quickly and then back around again, smiling.

"So you are as good as promised. Such talent must be cultivated…what do you wish to learn?" Erik hesitated.

"I—" _The stone leaf that was probably still sitting in his parents' house, the beauty of that leaf, the beauty he could make…_If he could do that on a large scale…"I want to learn how to build things. I want to be an architect." The Shah nodded.

"You will be given a tutor; he will teach you every other day. And you will entertain me once a week," Erik bowed, a neat little bow that he had been taught a while ago. "Take him away now," the Shah seemed like a man with a desperately short attention span. **(4)**

"It shall be done," the servant rose to his feet and escorted Erik out.

"For a first meeting, you did well," the servant said in a low voice. A man and a teenager passed them as they left the palace; the teenager's eyes met Erik's, and Erik's fists clenched involuntarily at the flash in the teen's eyes. Then they were gone: the two of them had entered the throne room.

"Who is that boy?" Erik said in a low voice.

"Oh, him? Son of the city's daroga, police chief Ramin Hosseini; that father and son pair is as close as any father and son can be. The daroga works closely with the Shah, since the Shah has to be under high security, and the daroga's son, Amir Hosseini, is being groomed to become the next daroga."

Erik glanced over his shoulder; Amir Hosseini wasn't staring at him, of course; he wasn't even in sight, but Erik couldn't help but feel a chill.

* * *

Erik's first lesson was rather boring, but he could see why it was necessary, even though he couldn't see why the soft-voiced, rather nervous Zia Talebi was necessary. He was useful though. The minute after he left (after a flustered five minutes picking up papers and books), a servant ran up to Erik's study and blurted, "Amir Hosseini is here to see you."

Erik felt his hair stand up. "Allow him in." The servant ran off and within minutes, Amir had entered, his face carefully emotionless. He was good-looking, perhaps, in Persian terms: dark skin, green, jade-like eyes, a thin mouth, and a thin face.

"You are Erik?" Amir said, seating himself without much ceremony in the chair that Zia Talebi had just vacated. "Do you have a last name?"

"My last name doesn't matter," Erik said softly. Amir's lips curved in something of a smile. Erik pushed the mask harder against his face reflexively.

"How old are you even? You act a lot older than you look."

"I'm twelve," Erik said stiffly.

"I'm sixteen," Amir said. Erik decided he didn't like this Amir.

"Why are you here?" Amir raised an eyebrow.

"Why, out of courtesy," Amir said. "You are the youngest person in the entire court, except for His Majesty's children, who do not count. Additionally, you are French," Amir's accent seemed even more prominent, "a lone foreigner. How is the food?"

Erik groaned. "I haven't been feeling too well," Erik said. Amir nodded.

"That is to be expected. There are so medicines that can be used, from the Far East, that can help your digestion, if you really want it."

"That would be really helpful," Eriik said. Amir smiled.

"Smallest thing I can do. If you want me to help you anymore, tell me."

* * *

The next week, Erik performed for the Shah, who seemed reasonably pleased. Erik could feel what the Shah thought: he was interesting, he was new. If Erik wanted to stay, he had to remain new and refreshing.

Erik wasn't too sure if he wanted to stay; Christiane would not be in Persia. Then again, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know how the Shah-in-Shah got angry.

He came up with his own "shows" from then on; several poems, stories from France, England (he couldn't believe how far he had sunk) and Persia itself. He adapted their plots into little skits and the Shah seemed to enjoy it. And meanwhile, he was studying architecture…Zia was competent, but before long, Erik was sketching his own elaborate palaces instead of analyzing palaces of Persia and France. Idle drawings, with Persian and French influences, but it was fun. More fun than thinking about how palaces were made.

And then there was Amir, who was always in the right places at the right time to see Erik stumble, and Erik could feel that Amir was not stalking…if anything, Erik tried to follow Amir around just to see if _Amir_ would mess up, but he never did. But if Erik's voice cracked while performing for the Shah and the entire court laughed, Erik would turn and there would be Amir, smiling.

Erik decided that he was always jealous of someone, and now it was Amir. Amir with his careless grace, his good looks, his success with the younger women of the court, his easy charm. Everyone fawned over him and his father, saying that when Amir grew up, he would be a great _daroga_. He could recite the code of the city already. While Erik…Erik was just a walking corpse, amusement that people enjoyed once a week, and for the rest of the week, Erik slaved away over his own plans and architecture.

But Amir was relentless; he was nice to Erik. He never laughed, just smiled at Erik's mistakes, and then he would say something like "The court always looks for victims. Don't take it too hard."

_Easy for him to say,_ Erik thought sourly, drilling a hole into the stack of thin paper. He stared at the hole; he had just ruined about ten sheets of paper. Not that it mattered much. Idly, he started to sketch a dome, like that of St. Peter's Basilica, but it was a warped dome and didn't work out. Somehow, it managed to progress to…Christiane.

Despite his attempts to find her, she had almost become…an idea. Erik raised the paper up, so that the sun filtered through the thin sheet. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to draw her blind eyes, so her eyes were closed, her face raised to the sun she couldn't see, wrinkles from stress and age crossing her forehead, blond hair messy.

Erik stared at it for a few seconds, and then he tucked it into a book that Zia had lent to him. Something nagged at him…_why do I remember so much of her?_ He threw the book under his bed.

* * *

**1. I wish I could cite where I got this information. I used information, I believe, on current Iranian cuisine and presumed that it didn't change too much over a hundred years. Gypsy cuisine is also based on present cuisine.**

**2. The appearance of the palace in my imagination is similar to the Golestan Palace. I had hoped that the Shah actually lived there during the timeline of POTO, but it seems that the royal family lived elsewhere and used the palace only for formal receptions. Still, if you want, google the Golestan Palace. It's where Erik will be for a long time. XP**

**3. The Shah goes under numerous names: Shah is a rough approximation of Shah-in-Shah, which means king of kings, so Shah literally means king. Shahanshah is a closer pronunciation of the title the Shah uses (Leroux uses Shah and Shah-in-Shah interchangeably.)**

**4. I could find precious little information about royal etiquette, so I based this on the etiquette of the Chinese emperors' courts, which I was very familiar with, with a bit of European etiquette. I don't want to sound lazy...but I think it's good enough. ^^  
**

AN: So the Persian makes his appearance! I must admit, I had a lot of fun dreaming up his character; he's so strange in POTO. Hope you enjoyed.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Sorry for the long time without updates! Exams are almost over and soon, after a brief trip to Wyoming, I should have more time to update fanfictions.

**Masked**

**Chapter 6**

**Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.- John Wagner

* * *

  
**

Two weeks after he arrived to the Shah-in-Shah's palace, as Erik sat on his bed reading, a servant ran in. "The Sultana wishes to see you."

"The who?" Erik sat up straight.

"The wife of the Shah," the servant looked around and lowered his voice, "she should be the Shabanu…but she uses 'Sultana' quite openly. Her husband, though strong in appearance, weakens before his wife, and so she uses 'Sultana'." (1)

"What's the difference?" Erik said indifferently, getting off the bed.

"The Sultana is the woman ruler of the country, sir," the servant said. Erik's eyes widened.

"The—"

"Hurry!"

* * *

The Sultana was far younger than her husband; she couldn't have been more than twenty-two. It didn't take long for Erik to realize why she was called the Sultana. She was beautiful and manipulative. She didn't even receive Erik in the throne room, but in her private quarters, on her _bed._

Erik was glad that he had no idea what was going on.

"Your name is Erik?" her voice was cool. She snapped her fingers and a servant bustled over with tea. She stared at Erik through narrowed eyes. The beads hanging before her bed clinked as she picked up a cup of tea.

"Yes," Erik said, his head lowered. Everything was a dark, sultry red. Silk rustled as she sat up. She was short; there was no other way to say it. Petite. Her dark eyes were large, doe-like.

"I have seen your talent in the court," she said. "You are indeed a rarity; you have far more use than just a court jester. My husband does not see far," her tone was dismissive; her lips curved in a smile. "He does not understand what you can do. A man," Erik thought this was stretching it a bit, seeing that he had to wait three more months to even become thirteen, "masked, with the power of illusions of the voice and the world; Alan has told me of your developing invention."

"It is finished, Your Highness," the toy was just something to imitate the various sounds of water.

"What potential!" she breathed, sitting up straighter. "Imitating the burble of water, or the fall of rain, on a dying person. And your voice, how many people will die to hear it? Die after hearing it? And—"

"What do you want, Your Highness?" The Sultana's eyes narrowed.

"Then I will be direct. You will serve _me_. I have many enemies; I must consolidate my husband's rule and make sure my daughter ascends to the throne."

"Your daughter?" Erik felt surprise slip into his voice. The Sultana didn't look like a woman who had given birth to a child.

"She is in the care of a wet nurse," the Sultana said. "She must rule after me, become Sultana in reality. But until then…you must help me. You must help me find my enemies, get rid of them." Erik froze.

He was _twelve_ years old and being told to _kill_ people.

"You will be rewarded, of course," the Sultana said, examining her nails. She closed her eyes, and then opened them; Erik's fists clenched under her gaze. "Richly. Whatever you wish. You need to serve me, though, until I see it fit to let you go."

Erik couldn't think of anything that he wanted other than to leave Persia. But she had said "You will serve me."

Erik took a deep breath. "With pleasure, Your Highness."

* * *

The Sultan mysteriously no longer summoned Erik for shows. Instead, the Sultana met with Erik at erratic times, summoning him at the strangest hours. He grew used to waking up in the middle of the night to meet with the Sultana in this or that garden. The Sultana spent most of the first meetings briefing Erik on enemies, who seemed endless, and worst of all, she expected him to remember.

It took two years for something to actually happen.

The Sultana sat by a fountain, her eyes narrowed, her lips pinched together, when Erik strode into the garden.

"Yes?" Erik said, kneeling.

"Rise," she said irritably, standing up as well. Erik was now taller than her, something that made him feel that the relationship was a little more equal than when it started. "Today, I've called you because of Farzin Abbassi," she plucked a flower, mashing the petals between her fingers, "he's been accusing my daughter of being illegitimate. I've _never _betrayed my husband and he knows that I haven't," she looked up, smirking at Erik's carefully blank face. "I can tell. You don't believe me. There is no point in risking my head when I can just tempt men. But anyways," she crossed her legs, throwing the remains of the flowers into the water. The candles floating on the water shivered, "my husband had stood up for me. Farzin has been silenced. I have petitioned my husband to allow me to execute him, for libel against the…Shabanu," the Sultana seemed to find it hard to state her actual title.

"And your wish?"

"You must torture him," the Sultana hissed. "Torture him. Use your voice, use anything. Invent something! Nobody will know how he died, but if they hear the screams, they will understand that nothing will stand before my daughter!" Erik clenched his fists.

"As you wish, Your Highness."

* * *

Erik sat in his bedroom, staring morosely out the window. Then, he stood up, walking to his bathroom. There was a mirror and for the first time, his eyes…met the eyes in the mirror.

He gaped.

It was a vision of horror.

His fists clenched again and the mirror suddenly shattered before him; glass tinkled on the granite countertop. He looked at his fist and sighed. Blood was trickling down his knuckles.

"Sir, I heard—Your hand!" the servant gaped at Erik's hand.

"Sorry, temper," Erik grunted.

"I'll summon a doctor right away!"

"Thank you," Erik stared at the sparkling glass as the servant went away. A mirror…torture by a mirror…With reluctance, he thought of the Sultana's command. _Using mirrors…mirrors…

* * *

_

Erik stood in the middle of the room, bandages covering his right hand. He pushed the white mask harder against his face. The last mirror fell into place and the three workers, who had assembled the entire room, scurried out. Erik walked over to one of the mirrors. Immaculate. Perfect. He smiled, raising his hand and touching that one spot. The mirror slid open to reveal the door out.

_Most of the people trapped in here will be taller than me, _Erik thought. _I haven't grown to my full height yet. I need this…I'll need to be able to get in and out of this room. _He turned around. The iron tree stood there, leaves seemingly blown by a wind that never existed.

He entered the doorway that had just opened. He pressed the same spot on the mirror, from the other side, and the mirror closed behind him. The passageway still smelled terrible, of alabaster and concrete. He ran through it, trying to breathe as little as possible, even though he kicked up dust and it flew into his eyes. Then, he reemerged, in a secluded passageway. He walked towards a garden. The Sultana sat there, staring at some flowers.

"It is done," Erik said. The Sultana looked up.

"Good," she said, her face looking drawn. "The workers will be the first." Her lips trembled and she stared at the flowers again.

"If I may, your Highness…is something wrong?"

"Should I tell you?" the Sultana snapped, looking up at Erik. "Get the workers locked in your torture chamber."

"My apologies," Erik bowed and then he turned around.

"Fila is sick, with smallpox," the Sultana whispered. Erik spun around. "If she survives, she will be disfigured forever," the Sultana's voice was again snappy, "she will never be able to use the prospect of marriage as a tool," the Sultana stood up. "Tomorrow, Abbassi will be locked up in the torture chamber. Make sure the three workers are removed before he enters. They must die before dawn."

* * *

At midnight, Erik rose from his bed and went to the torture chamber. The three men were already dead: one had hung himself using a robe from the iron tree and the other two had collapsed at the bottoms of the mirrors, their tongues lolling. Erik stared at their bodies and then, suppressing the urge to throw up, dragged the bodies, one by one, out of the torture chamber. It was easy to draw the pockmarks of smallpox on their faces. They had been sick. Easy enough.

He went upstairs, to a small viewing chamber that only he and the Sultana could access; the windows were situated in a way that nobody in the torture room could see him. And there was a trapdoor into the torture chamber.

He sat in the viewing chamber, his back against the wall, trying to stay awake, but the men's face kept looming in his vision and he kept jumping to his feet, pacing back and forth. Finally, it was six o'clock. He rose to his feet and went down the stairs; Fazin Abbassi was standing at the foot of the small staircase, looking curious.

"Erik?" Fazin smiled and Erik felt a pang of something…pity, perhaps. "Why are you here? Ah, you're supposed to meet me here, aren't you? They never told me who was going to meet me. I'm not even sure why I'm here," he laughed and Erik turned away from him. _Fourteen years old and already a murderer…_

"The Sultana just wants to have a cup of tea with you later," Erik said through gritted teeth. He turned back around to see Fazin's smile fade. "Oh, it's just idle talk," Erik said hurriedly, pointing up the staircase. "How about we first sit down for a while?"

"You work for the Shabanu?" the name grated on Erik's ears, but at the same time…_he has a lot of courage to call the Sultana the Shabanu. _

"The Sultana's servants are busy with her daughter as well as the Sultana's planned expedition," said Erik calmly. "She asked me to do a favor for her."

"All right then," Fazin walked up the staircase and Erik followed. The door was new and Fazin stopped short. "This door—"

"I'll open it," Erik said smoothly. He opened the door, stepping in first. "The tea is already ready." There were only two chairs; Erik sat down in one chair and Fazin sat on another. With trembling fingers, Erik lifted the teapot.

The trapdoor fell open and with a crash, Fazin landed in the torture chamber. Erik almost fell out of his chair. He stood up, his own chair falling back with a crash, and then ran over to the swaying trapdoor, lifting it and replacing it carefully again.

Erik ran out the door, stumbling into the corridor, out into the garden…Everything was dizzy, insane…his mask fell off…he threw up…Everything was blackness…

* * *

He was lying on his bed; he woke with a start. It had been two hours. He had to get Fazin's body.

He turned over and threw up again.

"Sir--"

"I have to leave," Erik said, his voice husky. "I have to go." He got out of his bed and ran out of his apartment, ran to—

"Where are you going?" Amir Hosseini _had _to appear, and it didn't help that he was a fully-grown eighteen-year-old. Erik scowled and tried to walk around him, but Amir, with his perfect grace, of course, moved one step to the right… and blocked Erik.

"Amir, out of my—"

"Where are you going?" Amir repeated.

"Don't pretend to be mad; I'm busy—"

"It's early in the morning and you're out of your apartment; you have no reason—" Erik punched Amir in the face. Amir groaned, sinking to his knees and Erik ran around him.

_My right fist…_He looked at his fist. The stitches, barely healed, had come apart again. He sighed, even as he arrived at the staircase. He ran through it, down the concealed corridor, and with a tap, he was in the torture chamber. It was stifling in there. Farzin had hung himself from the iron tree. Gently, Erik took the body down, wrapping it in the cloth he already had prepared.

_Is this a business…_Erik thought glumly. It would be easy this time to sneak out the body. The nearby garden should suffice. Of course, everyone would suspect the Sultana…

* * *

The spidery silk was beautiful, strong, razor-sharp. Erik twisted it between his fingers, twisted it into the noose that the two men had used to hang themselves. A lasso, a _garrote. _He spun it in the air.

A lasso.

He smiled; the idea of a _clean _death appealed to him now. If he couldn't stop killing, he could make it clean at least.

* * *

There was a public execution of a traitor, an actual traitor, one that had plotted against the government, in a week. The traitor's family would be executed, to the first degree: the immediate family would be all executed.

It was the least he could do.

It was a pit, covered in brown dirt, and the family kneeled before the Shah-in-Shah, standing in a high balcony with his Shabanu. The minister stood, chin raised defiantly.

"Then do you recognize your crime? Treason to the throne, plotting murder of the royal family, namely the Crown Princess," a gasp through the court. This was unknown. Erik sighed; perhaps it really was the Sultana's doing, although the Shah-in-Shah had proposed it. The minister closed his eyes, and then his eyes flew open.

"No," he said clearly. Erik stepped into the arena, the cold silk in his hands trembling. The minister turned towards Erik, his head still high.

_I created this so people would have a clean death…_

"Then you shall be executed by a new invention, the Punjab lasso, instead of the axe promised to traitors who confess." Erik stepped over to the minister. The minister's eyes widened; evidently, he recognized Erik as the fourteen-year-old court jester.

"The axe might be quicker, but more painful," Erik muttered. The minister shook his head.

"I did not do anything," he said calmly. "I will die, proudly, before the Shah-in-Shah." Erik nodded and he raised the lasso, lowering the string around the man's neck.

One swift yank.

The man collapsed, fell to his knees, one last breath out. And he was gone. Erik let go of the lasso. Using his elbow, he pushed his black mask against his face. Then he left. The body just lay there in the middle of the arena and his wife and children rose…to be executed as well.

Erik collapsed against a wall, pulling off his mask and pressing his hand over his mouth. The nausea wasn't as strong as before though…

* * *

He tied the knot and threw another Punjab lasso onto the ground. Amir suddenly materialized next to Erik's bed.

"_What?"_ Erik yelled, stumbling to his feet and balancing precariously on the mattress. "How did you get in?" Amir shrugged.

"I'm a trusted member of society, Erik," Amir said coolly, seating himself on a chair. "Nobody will accuse me of being a robber. Besides, my father—"

"Your father is the _daroga_; I don't care. You still shouldn't barge in!"

"Barging in is what my father does for murderers." Erik sat back down on the bed.

"And…"

"Farzin died awfully conveniently, didn't he? And that Punjab lasso," Amir's eyes drifted to the carpet, where another lasso lay, "it's a stunning piece of work. Inventive. I certainly wasn't that smart when I was fourteen."

"And your point?" said Erik. Amir looked startled.

"Murder, Erik; surely you understand what that means."

"Then cover for me."

Amir gaped at him, his eyes wide. "No—"

"The Sultana is using me," Erik said, his voice low now. "She's used me for the past two years; she's insane. She's trying to get her daughter on the throne; she's had a boy, but she's already forced the Shah-in-Shah not to declare him the Crown Prince. Every day, the Shah tries to change it for the boy, but she insists on the girl."

"But—"

"I don't care who becomes the next Sultana or Shah; I just want to leave Persia one day and return to France. Find Christiane. Until the Sultana decides she doesn't need me anymore and releases me, I have to do her bidding or die."

"Your life is worth less than theirs if you decide to take _pleasure _in killing—"

"I'm not," Erik said shortly. "I'm not taking pleasure in killing. I haven't descended that far." Amir stared at Erik for a long moment. Then he stood up, kicking the chair casually aside.

"I never thought I would let a murderer off," Amir said. "This goes against everything my father has taught me, what is expected of me. But I am letting you off…because it is the Sultana who is ordering you about. Perhaps she is the one I should be confronting. If you show any hint of enjoying your little games," Amir ran a hand through his long black hair; he sighed, "I won't show any pity just because you're a couple of years younger than me." Erik nodded. "Then I'm leaving," and he turned and with long strides, left the room.

Erik fell to his knees, brushing hair out of his eyes. "_Crisse_," he hissed. (2)

* * *

**1. I'm sorry to say that I have no better source than Wikipedia. Sorry. XP**

**2. Crisse is Christ in French.**

**All Persian names are taken from various websites.**


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Sorry for slow updates!

* * *

Masked

Chapter 7

_Death frights us. Death is a perpetual torment, for which there is no sort of consolation. There is no way by which it may not reach us. We may continually turn our heads this way and that, as if in a suspected country, but we can't forget death.- Montaigne_

_Thud_. The woman fell with a scream. Erik put down the teapot carefully, lovingly almost. He rose to his feet, carefully, with purpose, with none of the awkwardness a sixteen-year-old normally had; such awkwardness had left his body years ago. He strode to the trapdoor, which was still creaking, with purpose.

He looked down at the woman. She looked up, tears streaking down her face, her black hair like prison bars over her face.

"Where am I?" she screamed, and it was in her native Persian, but Erik knew basic Persian by now, and it was obvious what she was saying.

"Take care, miss," Erik said, and then he pulled the trapdoor up. He smiled; the woman had been quite insulting. To _him_, not the Sultana. Yes, she had been sassy to the Sultana, but it had been him she had insulted.

_I don't see how you've grown up, seeing how your face is so ugly that blind people must shudder when they pass you in the street…_

He had made sure that the pattering of rain was particularly loud. Hopefully she would feel that she was in the middle of the deserts that made up most of Persia, hopefully she would _feel_ the heat of the sand that wasn't there, feel the thirst clenching her throat, making her gasp for both water and thirst…

* * *

He went down the stairs. One of his servants (he still hadn't found out their names) ran over, wringing his hands and almost stumbling over his long robes.

"The Shah-in-Shah has called for you. Something to do with Zia Talebi. He's apparently recommended you to the court." Erik felt as if he had choked on ice. "Immediately, sir!" Erik ran after the servant, cursing the stupid robes that he had to wear; couldn't he have worn the pants that had been made in the Gypsy style today?

The servant and he burst into the courtyard before the throne room and he saw the flash of Amir Hosseini's eyes; Erik closed his eyes. "_Dieu, aide-moi,_" Erik said aloud. (1)

"Why should God help you now?" Amir said, a note of curiosity in his voice. But the servant had already pushed open the door. Erik ran up the steps and into the room, falling to his knees.

"Your Majesty," Erik breathed.

"_Merci beaucoup_ for your speed, Erik," the Shah said in French, rising to his feet. "You may rise." Erik scrambled to his feet, keeping his head lowered. "Zia Talebi has told me of your designs."

"My…designs?" Erik sputtered. Zia cleared his throat, raising several pieces of thin paper.

"Your designs. Tucked in between your homework," Erik felt his face flush; he could even picture the dull blood gathering under his yellow skin. He pushed his mask against his face harder. "Do not fear, Erik. Your homework is excellent," despite Zia's eyes being watery, Erik thought he could see a twinkle in Zia's eyes. "But your designs are revolutionary; it's a new blend of Western and Persian designs never seen before."

"Thank you, sir," Erik said.

"I've been thinking of constructing a summer palace in the north. I want you to create the design," the Shah interjected.

"You—"

"You will design everything. I will send to Zia the requirements I want for the palace."

"I—"

"You will accept, no doubt?" the Shah said, examining his fingers. Erik could hear him mutter, "I swear, the garden is such a nasty place…"

"I—" Erik glanced at the chair to the right of the Shah. The Sultana reclined on the chair casually, her large eyes fixed on Erik. When their eyes met, the Sultana's lips curled, to show teeth that looked very white and sharp suddenly. "Of course, I will accept, Your Majesty. It is my honor."

The Shah smiled. "Thank you, Erik. You have been very reliable and these sketches look _beautiful_."

* * *

Several pages of requirements sat before him. Erik stared at the papers, and then picked them up, rifling through them. A palace apparently had a lot of requirements: Erik glimpsed _bathrooms with onyx…fountains with floating flowers….fountains with candles…indoor pools with rose petals…four-poster beds_ required…_several gardens interspersed everywhere…_

Erik took out a piece of paper. An aerial view, a plan for each room, garden, and fountain…he sighed. A piece of paper for each _fountain_. At least this had become his homework.

* * *

The ream of paper was like a small book. Erik bundled the papers together, his fingers fumbling. _Two months of work…two months of non-stop work…Finally done. _The papers seemed so small, so pathetic. But everything was in here…

"Announce to the Shah," Erik said slowly to the servant standing next to him. "Now. I'm finished." The servant dashed out of the room and Erik rose to his feet. He changed his clothing, robotically. He walked to the bathroom. The water flowed out of the tap; he let his fingers linger under them. Some of the ink fell away, swirling in the water, blossoming almost, before sliding down the drain. He rubbed his fingers. Nothing. Still black. He sighed, wiping his hands.

He left his apartment with his sheaf of papers. After walking in some direction, he realized, even after six years of living here, he still didn't know where the throne room was. He hadn't needed to go there very often, after all.

"What are you doing here?" Amir Hosseini was dressed in the European style: a light-brown single-breasted jacket, in the Norfolk fashion, light-brown trousers, brown shoes. (2)

"You're dressed up," Erik said coolly. Ironic, how he was the European, but he was wearing traditional wear, while Amir was wearing the most fashionable European men's outfit. A nice outfit, apparently; one of the Sultana's handmaidens ran past, flushing as Amir turned to watch her pass.

"That's besides the point," Amir said, turning back to look at Erik directly. "Why are you standing in front of my house?" Erik stared at the building behind Amir; it was at least twice as big as Erik's apartment.

"I…I have to see the Shah," Erik stuttered.

"The throne room is over there," Amir pointed in the other direction.

"Ah. Er…can you help me find the throne room?"

Amir's lips quirked.

"Well, then, all right." Amir walked off in the direction he had just pointed to, and Erik followed. "What do you need to see him for?"

"I finished the designs," Erik said. Amir raised an eyebrow.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you.``

"Honestly, you should remember where the throne room is after all these years. It's been six years."

"I've only been there a few times."

Amir shrugged. "Suit yourself," the throne room loomed before them. "There you go," Amir pointed to the throne room. "Enjoy yourself."

"Enjoy?" Erik echoed hollowly. Then he went up the steps and pushed a door open slightly, but suddenly the doors opened to reveal the Shah and his normal courtiers, evidently waiting for him.

"You're done with the designs?" the Shah said as Erik went to his knees. "Oh, get up." Erik scrambled to his feet. The Shah's eyes glinted. "Ah yes, the plans…allow me to see them." A servant grabbed the papers out of Erik's hand and soon, the Shah was rifling through them. Months of work, evaluated in thirty seconds. Erik felt his heart burn. "Excellent, excellent. This is excellent. We will build it like this."

"Sir—"

"Money will be sent to you," the Shah said casually. "You are dismissed." Was it his paranoia, or did the Shah seem…too terse? And the Sultana did not smile when their eyes met; her eyes were cold. Erik's blood froze. _She's cutting me off…And I don't know why.

* * *

_

Erik lay on the bed, sprawled out. He closed his eyes, feeling the welcome relief. He hadn't slept that night…he had been too nervous. _What is the Sultana planning to do? What is she planning to do? _

At least there were no summons from the Sultana or any work from Zia Talebi. He could just sit here…wonder what could be going wrong…

"Amir Hosseini wants to see you," a servant said. Erik groaned. The servant stared at him, and then said, "If you wish, I can tell him—"

"Let him in," Erik mumbled, throwing a blanket onto the floor. Amir appeared right next to him, as if the servant had magicked him in. Erik grunted.

"You're still dressing up like a European. What are you planning? You're a Persian," Erik muttered. Amir examined the sleeve of his black Norfolk jacket and brushed off some invisible dirt.

"I'm feeling experimental," Amir shrugged. "But, Erik, I'm not here for that. You finished the plans, didn't you?"

"Yes," Erik said. "You know that."

"What was the Shah like? Was he happy?"

"Well…he seemed nonchalant," Erik said. Amir threw his head back, staring at the ceiling.

"I only wished he cared a little more…It means that you are not valuable to him anymore. Plus, you know the layout of the palace."

"And what does that matter?"

"There's a reason why every servant is not allowed to know the entire layout of the palace. The Shah fears assassination, constantly. His Sultana isn't even allowed to know the entire layout of the palace; if he leaves a certain part of the palace, the guards switch out. The designer of this palace was killed a long time ago. You will be too. He underestimated you at first, thinking you wouldn't create such an intricate palace; he was planning on making the more detailed rooms. But now…you've created a palace that he loves, but at the same time, you're a threat. You know the entire palace. You'll have to be executed."

"But…" Erik wanted to make sense of this, but couldn't, "Couldn't he just change the palace up?"

"Sure he can. But it still has your touch. You would recognize a lot of things. An artist always does recognize their own work, even when it's changed. A work written in French reeks of the author, even when translated into Persian," Amir ran a hand through his hair, sighing, "You're going to be executed, Erik, if you don't leave now."

"Now?"

"Now. I couldn't reach you yesterday; you told your servants not to admit anyone and they were diligent in following that order. Get your clothes and I'll help you get back to France."

"What—"

"You need to return to France. It's simple. The reason why I've been wearing all this European clothing is that my father has considered allowing me to go have a tour of Europe, just for fun," he smiled, a soft, easy smile, "I can easily hide you in the caravan. We're leaving…in a month. Until then, you can hide in a city, not the capital. I'll come and find you later."

"I—"

"You know what? We're leaving now. I'll leave on a brief excursion, for two days. Pack up your stuff. I'm packing now."

"Amir—"

"Shahbaz!" Amir yelled.

"You know my servant's name?"

"I had to look at their record; my father told me to analyze the servants' criminal record. Shahbaz! Pack up the young master's clothing. He's leaving for a vacation."

"Yes, sir," the servant yelled back, dashing through the bedroom. "How long, sir?"

"Six days. And prepare a lot of money; the master is going to need souvenirs. He hasn't had a vacation in a long time. Erik, come with me," Amir went into the bathroom. He looked at the servant, making sure he wasn't listening, and then said, in a low voice, just as Erik came in, "you have to be careful. Do not go _anywhere_ without someone you trust. I believe your servants don't know yet. Tell Zia you don't need his services anymore, tell him you're not sure about your direction in life or something and that you need some time to think. The Sultana won't summon you anymore. She knows what's coming to you."

Erik felt a chill go down his arms. "Sorry, I can't absorb this," he could hear his voice cracking, his _voice cracking, _he was sixteen years old—

"You'll have a day. We leave tomorrow morning."

* * *

**(1) God, help me. **

**(****2) http:// media.o rg/wiki pedia/en/ b/be/N orfo lk_Jack **

**AN: Hmm, not too much to say. And the Shah-in-Shah's paranoia is based off of some references in POTO and various European rulers and Chinese emperors' behaviors. **


	8. Chapter 8

Masked

Chapter 8

_Homecoming unites the past and the present.- Author Unknown

* * *

_

Erik felt like a little child again. The bag on his back was filled with only a few essentials. Amir jumped onto his horse lightly. "You've ridden a horse?" Erik shook his head. Amir shook his head, but it was out of despair. He gave a mocking sigh, "You'll learn. I'll handle the horse for now. Tie his horse to mine's," Amir shouted, and a servant hurriedly did so.

"Sir, are you sure you require no servants?"

"I'm going to be daroga soon. I should know how to live independently. Erik will help me, and it'll be fun. I haven't been able to get out of the city in years!" Amir smiled. The servant stared at Amir, and then he turned around and left.

"Do you always have to intimidate people like that?" Erik said irritably, "Honestly, a cold look would suit you more."

"Well, the ladies seem to like it," Amir shrugged. Erik rolled his eyes.

The city was a shock, after so many years living by himself. There were crowds of people. Of course, Amir was perfectly at ease with all of them, but Erik felt like a lost puppy.

"We need to find a place for you to say. It's a pity you have to wear a mask; otherwise it would be a lot easier to hide you." Amir ran his hand through his hair, frowning. Erik gritted his teeth as a group of young women giggled as they passed by Amir. "You know, you can wear a half-mask. Very stylish." (1)

"The other side of my face is too hideous for that," Erik snapped.

"I haven't even seen your face in all these years."

"We weren't the best of friends." Erik said. Suddenly, Amir walked into a large inn and Erik followed. "I am _not _staying here; this place is so public." But Amir had walked up to the receptionist. Leaning casually on the counter, he said something quickly to him, in Persian. Erik could understand snatches of it. Then, Amir pushed a thick wad…_Mon Dieu, not money, please_ towards the receptionist and the receptionist accepted it, smiling, and nodded.

"Well. That's settled," Amir walked back to Erik, who had been lurking behind a column. "It's quite simple, really. You'll be getting room service for all your meals. You don't have to show up at all. Additionally, I've registered you as Vivant, your old name. Nobody will think of that. It'll be for a month. I'll come back and retrieve you once the caravan starts out."

"I—"

"Everything's been paid," Amir said smoothly. "Go to your room. You're going to be bored, I know. I'm going to buy loads of clothing for you; you'll need it once you get back to France. _European_ clothing, not Persian or Gypsy clothing. You're French, Erik. You've been speaking French for all these years but you haven't been acting like it."

"Why are you bothering to help me? Can't I do any of this by myself?"

"You still sound like a child, Erik," Amir said as they went up the staircase. "A petulant one as well. Erik, you realize that you still don't have a grasp of Persian and you might be executed? You need someone to help you. Granted, you are a murderer," Erik rolled his eyes," I shouldn't be helping you. But…I don't know. Anyways, I'm going to buy some clothing for you. Seeing that you're only a little shorter than I am, that should be easy."

Erik scowled. He wasn't controlling the situation. He felt…this was wrong.

"You'd better not interfere with my affairs once I return to France," Erik muttered. Amir grinned.

"Of course not. This is your room," he opened the door. It was lavish: the bedroom was only slightly smaller than the one Erik had left, and the bathroom wasn't the huge affair in Erik's old apartment: the tub wasn't a swimming pool.

"It'll do," Erik muttered.

* * *

A month later, there was a knock on Erik's door. He rose and opened it. Amir. He was now wearing a Persian outfit. He grinned once he saw Erik. "To think I was getting used to those English styles."

"You're…ready?"

"Yes! Come on, get your stuff; we're leaving!"

And then it was months of traveling. All Erik could think of was Shandor, Andrezj, Andrezj's parents, the woman who frequently gave him sweets, and only him, because he had seemed to be "such a sweet little boy, despite those sinister masks you have to wear…"

And this time, Amir talked to him: he would mention something about France, but it all seemed like a distant country now…He only knew the cultures of the Roma and the Persians. France seemed foreign. He couldn't imagine walking among people that had skin closer to his own in color.

And then they crossed the border into France. France, with its enchanting smells, the beautiful sights, the aristocrats and commoners, both who looked so relaxed. Even though they were only hiding behind their own masks, of calm and happiness, it was reassuring to see the masks.

How ironic, that he wanted to see their masks when he detested his own real masks.

"France," Amir breathed. "Of all the nations I wanted to see…France…

"Do you know if there are any churches?" the question came naturally to Erik. It was as if he hadn't left for six years. Christiane was still out there. Jacques was still out there. Amir looked at him curiously.

"Churches?" he turned to his servants. "Do you know if there are any churches in this hamlet?"

"There's only one, sir. There's always at least one."

"Do you know where it is?" Erik asked the servant. The servant shook his head.

"No, but I don't see why you should be concerned—"

"Miss," and a little girl turned around, looking wary; she wore a cute dress that usually the socialites wore, but it was a smaller version. Erik had to smile, although it was not evident from his mask, "I'm just wondering where the church is?" The girl's shoulders were still stiff.

"It's in the middle of town, sir. The entire town is built around it."

"Thank you," Erik said. The girl nodded, brown curls bouncing, and ran off. No doubt to tell her mother that a scary man had asked her for directions to a church. Erik sighed.

"I'll make my own way through France now," he said, turning to Amir. "Thank you."

"You're probably not even used to saying that phrase," Amir said, smiling.

"No," Erik said. "I don't like to have a debt to people. It seems like I have a debt to far too many people…Amir, I will pay you back one day," Amir tilted his head to the side, raising an eyebrow.

"Just don't go about murdering people, all right?"

* * *

The smells triggered everything: the thick book logging people's names, the bibles, the hymns sung in churches, even that priest who had been the only one to ask who Erik was…and Erik had lingered in the back of so many churches.

He opened the book and started all over again: several hours of just pouring through names, six years of names. He was never going to get through this….

After an hour, he sat down, at the foot of the pedestal bearing the book, and leaned against it, closing his eyes. _I'll just close my eyes for a while…looking at all that spidery handwriting is awful…_

He opened his eyes. _Where am I?_ The ceiling was white, plaster, nothing like the high-ceilinged church he had left. He sat up; he seemed to be in a hotel, or an inn, or—

"I guess I had to come retrieve you anyways," Amir said irritably, walking through the door. "Good that you're awake. Come on, I'm going to take you to Paris at least. You're so unstable; I can't trust you at all."

"Not you again," Erik groaned.

"_Oui, c'est moi_," Amir said, throwing Erik's bag onto the bed. "I'll take a day off to make sure you don't die and then I'll abandon you."

* * *

The next day, Amir was gone. Vanished by night, leaving Erik to find his own hotel. Not that Erik minded. This was how it was supposed to be. Amir wasn't supposed to help him.

Erik rose the next day…and wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. Paris seemed so familiar and yet so foreign. He wondered, idly, if he should go find the little hamlet near Rouen, where his parents had lived, and probably still lived. Would they accept him? Were his grandparents in Paris? Did they know by now that they had a grandson?

There was a building being constructed on a street. Erik stopped by the building. It was strange, seeing construction. The people were working industriously, wearing clothing that was far tougher than the average person's.

"How much do you get?" Erik asked. It seemed like a dream, as he listened to them listing wages. He was in Paris…Paris…They took him to their boss and he got a job, as a construction worker. Better than being the Sultana's pawn.

* * *

He woke up the next day, ate a croissant and just let it melt in his mouth. He hadn't had a croissant in six years. The butter was sheer bliss. He got to his feet and …just like that, went to work.

He had never done manual labor like this before, but perhaps, he thought, he was meant for this. Just a brute beast, like Quasimodo in _Notre Dame de Paris_. Maybe he wasn't meant for the mind games; it was better just to be anonymous, hidden.

He wondered if he even needed to find Christiane anymore. She seemed such a distant memory, more like an angel that he had heard of, but had never really understood.

And the construction workers, as anonymous as they were…they accepted him. Never questioned the mask that he constantly wore, even joked about it, gave him masks. They were accepting. And Erik was comfortable with that.

Even though something nagged him. Maybe it was the need to find Christiane. Maybe it was the Roma people's influence, but he needed to move. Even if it was just in Paris.

Two weeks after taking the job, he walked past the Opera and fell in love for the first time. It was so beautiful, so ornate: white marble crowned by a dome of light, sea-green, and as if their spirits had come down to earth, the famous composers adorned the building: Beethoven, Mozart…

But it wasn't complete. The dome was only partially complete and he could see the beginnings of statues…but they weren't complete. And he decided that _he_ could finish them.

So he quietly joined the crew, working at the smallest positions, and then he helped designed the statues.

_The goddesses, the Muses, Nike, goddess of liberty…_ They all became part of the Opera. Of course, he only came up with the ideas, the managers had nodded seriously, and then they actually designed the statues. Still, it was a start. They promoted him, made him leader of a group, and he started them immediately on some underground tunnels. They never spoke of what they were doing to others.

_Perhaps they already know I'm someone to fear._ As the Opera was finished and more and more workers left, Erik found himself paying them out of the money he had brought from Persia, untouched until now, and his own salary. Food was becoming less important anyways. They built the trapdoors, the passageways, and then…it was over.

He didn't know what to do with them.

He couldn't allow them to remember what the passageways were like, where the trapdoors were, if he was going to live underground.

He was _supposed_ to hate himself. But he couldn't. It was about himself. The three workers were quietly strangled using the Punjab lasso, their bodies dropped into the lake. As a last…apology, Erik dropped off their salaries at their respective homes.

He built the actual house. It was his home, after all. He built it with no plan and when he was finished, he realized that it was a copy of the home that he had been born and raised in; the two floors had just been spread out so that the house had only one story.

Once he realized this, he sighed. He was far too nostalgic for his own good.

Life became isolation once again for him, except he had no servants. He was lonelier than even before. Soon, food became…unimportant. He could go days without realizing he was hungry, until he collapsed from weakness. But even that took a long time.

He never watched the shows put on by the Opera, even though he did have a box. They were all disgusting. The operas were written well, with little emotion, but the singers! He had had voice training with Shandor and he knew what a good voice sounded like. These were crows squawking over a kill. Greedy for the glory and money that came along with singing in the Opera. He forced the managers to give him money, just to counter _their _ambitions at least. The only one who didn't seem driven by ambition, or at least ambition for ambition's sake, was Madame Giry. A woman driven by a mother's love…something Erik could appreciate.

So it passed, so many years; he labored over the details of his house and _Don Juan Triumphant_: _his_ answer to all those mockeries of operas. His work was of genuine emotion. It wasn't fake, it wasn't held up by money. It was a shame that those awful operas were housed in such a glorious work of art as the Opera.

So he had thought, for decades. All of them were money-grubbing people, not artists, all as hideous in their own ways as he was. Until she came.

He had been sneaking around the tunnels again for fun, having just collected his money from the managers when he heard one of the dressing rooms that had long been empty…something was moving inside of it. He went behind the panel he had installed and listened. He could just barely hear a name, starting with C and H, before the person left the room.

He sat in his box that day, waiting, waiting. And then the curtains fell back. It's some insipid play, involving Greek myths, but Erik could only see the dancing nymph.

Blue eyes.

Blonde hair.

A sweet voice.

Christine, or Christiane, he could not tell.

He no longer cared.

He had finally come home.

* * *

**(1) Reference to the fact that in the last movie, lots of critics thought Gerard Butler was too handsome for the role, emphasized by the fact he only wore a half-mask. The only reference I had toward the movie (which I've never seen)**

AN: Wow, this is the LAST chapter. I can't believe it. It's quite short, really. Not much research in the last either. Purely driven by emotion.

I hope you liked my interpretation of the Phantom's past; leave a review. Oh, and if you've been having problems with emails from , leave that in the review as well. I haven't received any notifications for over a month now!


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